A Killing Coast dah-7

by Pauline Rowson

And I bet you’ve told Dean that it’s all down to me, thought Horton angrily. Well, Dean hadn’t come bellyaching around his door yet, and so far Bliss had failed to rub salt into his wounds; she was too preoccupied with her pet project and, Horton guessed, too wary to come down on him too hard in case DCS Sawyer was his new-found friend.

  Ignoring Uckfield’s remark, Horton said, ‘I want to interview the author of a book on the history of the Isle of Wight coast that was in Lisle’s dining room.’

  Uckfield rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t see where that’s going to get us.’

  ‘Neither can I at the moment,’ Horton retorted, ‘but Yately visited this author in October, February and three weeks ago, and as those notes have gone missing, along with Lisle and his laptop computer, and as Lisle apparently took the notes, it’s worth talking to the author. .’ Horton stalled. There was something on the edge of his mind, something he’d just said that was significant, but try as he might he couldn’t grasp what it was. Irritatingly it refused to come.

  Uckfield exhaled noisily and threw himself back in his seat. ‘Might as well waste more time,’ he said airily. ‘Like checking out that archive file.’

  ‘Cheer up. Oliver Vernon, the antiques expert, might have something significant to say about Hazleton’s valuables which could give us a lead.’

  Uckfield snorted. Horton beat a hasty retreat before the Super could voice his opinions about that, and before he could ask what Cantelli was working on.

  An hour and a half later Horton was pulling up outside Hazleton’s house, where a patrol car was sitting on the driveway. He nodded at the officer outside and found the other officer with Oliver Vernon in the lounge.

  ‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ Vernon said brightly, shaking Horton’s hand.

  ‘That good, eh?’

  ‘I’d say,’ he enthused, crossing to the mantelpiece. ‘Take this.’ He pointed to a black wooden glass-fronted box on the mantelpiece that contained a thermometer and had a gold clock with roman numerals mounted above it. ‘It’s an antique French Empire clock, and is absolutely beautiful, not to mention in pristine condition.’ He touched it almost sensuously. ‘It was made around 1820 and its seconds dial and thermometer make it unique. For a collector it could fetch up to five thousand pounds, maybe more. And look at this pair of Famille Rose vases either side of it. Exquisite. May I?’

  Horton nodded. Vernon lifted one of the small vases and handled it delicately while inspecting it. It was just over a foot high. Horton saw that it was decorated with Chinese characters in a fenced garden amidst rocks, blossoming trees and floral sprays.

  ‘This is amazing,’ Vernon breathed. ‘I can hardly believe it. Early twentieth century, Chinese. Could fetch anything up to forty thousand pounds at auction.’

  Horton was surprised, though he shouldn’t have been, recalling what Trueman had said about Hazleton’s accounts.

  With a flushed face, Vernon continued, ‘Can these antiques be traced back to previous owners?’

  ‘We haven’t found any paperwork for them.’

  Vernon raised his eyebrows. ‘Unusual, but not unknown. Do you suspect them to be stolen?’

  ‘Do you?’

  Vernon gave a knowing smile. ‘I can’t remember seeing any of them listed as stolen, or hearing about it. In my business it pays to keep a track of these things.’

  ‘And what precisely is your business?’ asked Horton lightly, before quickly adding, ‘Oh, I know you’re an auctioneer but. .’

  ‘I’m not actually. I’m an art historian.’

  Horton contrived to look baffled, and as if this was new information to him, when Avril had already told him this and Walters had discovered that Vernon worked as a freelance valuer, researcher, lecturer and consultant. He wanted it to lead to them discussing Russell Glenn.

  Vernon smiled and gently replaced the Chinese vase. ‘I research rare and valuable antiques, art treasures like this vase, jewellery and paintings for clients. When I find something, often after years of research, I offer to buy it on behalf of the client, if it’s available for sale, and even if it’s not I will try and persuade the owner to part with it, or rather my client gives me authorization to bid to a certain level, depending on how desperate he is to acquire it. Other times I will trace a lost antiquity without necessarily having a client and then I will match it with a client who will appreciate it.’

  ‘And is that what you do for Russell Glenn?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vernon’s eyes scanned the room. They fell on the painting of a sailing scene that looked like it had been executed at Cowes Week, which Horton had noted on his earlier visit. ‘I know what Russell wants and if I’m not mistaken. .’ Vernon swiftly crossed the room and peered closely at the painting. Horton exchanged a glance with the uniformed officer, who knew better than to interject. Vernon gave a low whistle and spun back, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Russell would love to own this, if it’s genuine,’ he quickly added. ‘And I think it might be. He loves beautiful things, paintings in particular, but he also buys rare pieces of jewellery for Avril. This painting appears to be a Raoul Dufy, which is remarkable because it looks like “Regatta at Cowes”, and it can’t be because “Regatta at Cowes” is hanging in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC.’ Vernon ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Who’s Raoul Dufy?’ asked Horton as a thought struck him. Could tonight’s reception on board the superyacht have been designed for the purpose of Oliver Vernon buying, or rather overseeing the purchase, of an item of jewellery for Glenn? It couldn’t be a painting because that would be too conspicuous to bring on board; all the items were being viewed on screen in the on board cinema so whatever it was had to be small enough to be brought on to the yacht by one of the guests without being noticed, especially if that item had been obtained illegally to begin with. With growing excitement Horton thought that at last he might be getting to grips with the real purpose of Glenn’s stay in Portsmouth. The charity auction was just a smokescreen. Did that mean Avril was party to this exchange? Before he could reason that one out, Vernon was speaking.

  ‘Dufy was a French Fauvist painter. They were renowned for emphasizing bright colours and bold contours in their work, as you can see in this painting. Dufy died in 1953. He is very noted for scenes of open-air social events, like this one. It’s either a very good forgery or Dufy painted more than one picture of the “Regatta at Cowes” in 1934. And if it’s genuine it will fetch a fortune at auction. You are looking at a very fine collection here, and the glassware and porcelain I’ve already seen in the dining room is in incredibly good condition and valuable. This man clearly had an eye for beautiful things.’

  Too fine an eye. How could an office manager have afforded to buy these kinds of things, wondered Horton? The simple answer was he couldn’t. These either had to have been stolen or they were Hazleton’s pay-off for smuggling. ‘Did you know Mr Hazleton?’

  ‘No. I only wish I had. Is there a next of kin?’ Vernon asked keenly.

  Horton knew the way Vernon’s mind was running, get in early and offer to handle the sale.

  ‘We’re still trying to establish that. For the time being I’d appreciate it if you would handle this matter confidentially.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Could you make an inventory of what’s in the house, giving an estimated value of each item?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure. I’ll begin right away.’

  ‘An officer will accompany you.’

  ‘To make sure I don’t steal anything?’ Vernon grinned. ‘It’s all right, I understand and I’d welcome an extra pair of hands and eyes.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Depending on what else I find in the house I might have to return tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s fine and I appreciate your help, Mr Vernon.’

  ‘Oliver, please. I hear you’re attending our little shindig tonight.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think I’ll be bidding for any of the items on a police inspector’s pay.’

/>   ‘You might get carried away in the excitement of the moment.’

  ‘If I do then I’ll have to ask you to re-auction it. Does that happen?’

  ‘Not in the circles I operate in.’

  ‘The rich and famous. And they have deep pockets, like Russell Glenn.’

  ‘Very deep. And, as I said, they like special pieces and they’re not too fussy about their provenance.’

  ‘How long have you acted for Glenn?’ Horton asked casually.

  ‘Five years.’

  ‘How did you get to build up this select band of clients? I’m curious that’s all,’ Horton quickly added, smiling; he didn’t want to make it sound like an interrogation.

  ‘Recommendation. And a reputation for being discreet. I do a good job for one client and the word soon gets around. I started off by discovering a very beautiful lost piece of. . well, let’s just say something very valuable and treasured.’ Vernon fingered his short fair beard with his slender fingers. ‘I successfully negotiated its sale, no questions asked, nothing made public and just built my reputation from there. There’s nothing illegal about what I do, Inspector. I don’t steal anything and I don’t sell on stolen goods, not unless they were stolen three or more centuries ago and no one knows or can trace their rightful owner.’

  ‘And it’s all tax free.’

  Vernon pulled a face. ‘That’s not my business.’

  No, thought Horton. Tax evasion wasn’t Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer’s usual remit either, but he could be working alongside other agencies to crack Russell Glenn for it. But Horton suspected that either Glenn was about to purchase some art or antique treasure and Sawyer was keen to get hold of it and those involved in the transaction, or Glenn had something to sell. And perhaps he’d been invited on board to verify that everything, as far as he could see, was above board. He thought of the guest list that Cantelli had shown him earlier and wondered what Walters would discover from checking the names on it. Who was the secret buyer or seller?

  Vernon’s voice broke through his thoughts. ‘I recommend that you either move these valuables or make this house rock-solid secure. I won’t say anything but word has a habit of getting out.’

  It hadn’t so far but Horton took the point. He said, ‘An officer will drop you back to the Hover terminal when you’re ready, and in time to make sure you’re not late for the auction tonight.’

  He nodded at the officer to stay with Vernon and gave him instructions to take written notes. He didn’t want Vernon using a mobile device to record the items for fear it would get out on the Internet. Outside, Horton detailed the other officer to remain there and to be vigilant. Then he called Uckfield, who answered immediately. Horton relayed what Vernon had told him. ‘Better ask the National Gallery in Washington DC if their Raoul Dufy is still hanging there,’ Horton added jokingly. ‘Apart from that it looks as though Hazleton came across these items illegally, either having stolen them or they could have been his rewards for helping in a high-level smuggling operation.’

  ‘You’re not going to give up on that, are you?’ Uckfield cried in exasperation.

  ‘Like you’re not going to give up on the theory that Lisle killed Hazleton and Yately because his wife had an affair with them.’

  ‘At least it explains the dress. Hazleton couldn’t have stolen from the Jenkins estate, because Dennings says Jenkins left everything to two charities and they’ve confirmed they received it. His team’s still checking the rest of the names in that file.’

  Horton rang off but Uckfield’s words nudged what had been chewing at the corner of his mind. Checking the rest of the names in that file. Files. His mind flashed to the files he’d seen that morning in the social services office, or rather hadn’t seen. And now he knew what Arthur Lisle had been checking for in that archive file. Of course the names on the front of the archive box tallied with the contents and the office manager’s database, because the file that Lisle had sought had never been put in the box to begin with. Horton smiled. It was so simple. Victor Hazleton had been the office manager in 1980. He had complete control over the archive files. If he had robbed someone’s estate what simpler way to cover it up than to keep the paperwork himself or destroy it so that nobody could check it? Only someone had finally discovered Hazleton’s little secret: Arthur Lisle.

  But that didn’t explain how Hazleton had done it, or why he was dead instead of Arthur Lisle. Horton’s excitement subsided. He had felt that he was getting somewhere but he was still up that blind alley. He just hoped and prayed the local historian, Williams, might throw some light on to it.

  NINETEEN

  Horton was shown into a small study crammed with books and papers in a modern house in the middle of undulating countryside not far from the coastal resort of Sandown.

  Ian Williams, a lean man in his early fifties, with short light-brown hair, bright intelligent eyes and a cheerful small face, gestured Horton into a seat with a friendly smile. He’d made coffee, over which they talked about a shared interest in a love of the sea and sailing.

  ‘I heard about Colin Yately’s death on the radio. Terrible. He first contacted me in October last year, again in February, and three weeks ago,’ Williams said, getting down to business.

  Horton sat forward, not bothering to disguise his keen interest. ‘Why did he contact you?’

  ‘He was researching the Island’s history, or more specifically Island families and the people who had shaped it in some way. William Arnold was one such person. He was appointed Collector of Customs at Cowes in 1777; a very hard-working, honest and determined man. He pressed for a faster cutter based at Cowes to stop the smugglers but when he didn’t get one he bought and fitted one out of his own pocket. Through his determination smuggling decreased. Then there was Hans Stanley who bought the Steephill estate to the west of Ventnor in 1770. Stanley was MP for Southampton from 1754 to 1780 and was made Governor of the Isle of Wight for life in 1774.’

  ‘You told Mr Yately about these people.’

  ‘Yes, and others, including John Morgan Richards, the tobacco magnate, who bought Steephill Castle in 1903 and continued the tradition of entertaining the rich and famous there.’

  Horton felt the stirrings of disappointment. As he bit into a digestive biscuit, he was beginning to think this was a dead end, just as Cantelli’s enquiries into the armed robberies had been. His mind spun back to the call he’d received from Cantelli just before he’d knocked on Williams’ door. Both of the armed robbers that Adrian Stanley had arrested were now dead. So there was no point in pursuing that line and, as Cantelli had said, Adrian Stanley must have been trying to tell him something else. Horton had asked how Walters was getting on with Glenn’s guest list. No one suspicious so far was the result, which was what Horton had expected. He wondered if he should tell Sawyer what he suspected. Not until he’d finished with Ian Williams, and despite liking the man and enjoying his company, he thought he should make that sooner rather than later.

  Williams was saying, ‘Mr Yately was also very interested in Dr Arthur Hill Hassall who was sent to Ventnor to convalesce from tuberculosis, which was a killer in the nineteenth century, as you probably know. He was so impressed by the beneficial effect of the mild climate of the Undercliff that he wrote to The Lancet in 1867 advocating the building of a hospital for tuberculosis patients. It was the beginning of a revolutionary and highly effective treatment, but even more effective was the coming of antibiotics in the 1950s which put an end to the hospital.’

  Williams sipped his coffee. He looked as though he was getting into his stride and could wax lyrically for hours on the subject, but Horton didn’t have hours. He wanted to get back to the mainland long before the reception to see if DCI Harriet Lee or anyone else from the Intelligence Directorate was lurking on the boardwalk, watching Glenn’s yacht. And he wanted to corner Mike Danby to establish exactly how much he knew about any attempt to buy or sell whatever precious item was going to exchange hands tonight.

 
; ‘Mr Yately was also very interested in another prominent family of Ventnor, one which had a considerable influence in transforming it from a small fishing village to a town.’

  Horton’s head snapped up, his interest suddenly aroused. They were almost the same words Yately had used in those notes. He sat forward. ‘And they were?’

  ‘The Walpens, as in the Chine,’ Williams smiled.

  The chines, caves and coves of the Isle of Wight. That meant little on its own but Horton felt a pricking sensation between his shoulder blades that told him this had to be relevant, a feeling which deepened when Williams added, ‘In fact, when Mr Yately came to see me for the third time, three weeks ago, it was the Walpens he was particularly interested in.’

  And two weeks ago Arthur Lisle had requested an archive file from the storage company. Horton couldn’t recall the Walpen name on the list of contents for the simple reason that it had never been entered. He’d been correct. God, he was close. He could feel it, smell it. He could almost touch the answer, it lay tantalizingly close, just outside his grasp. But he felt certain that soon the pieces would come together. Not caring if he betrayed his excitement, he said, ‘Tell me what you told Colin Yately.’

  ‘First we discussed the name Walpen, for a reason. Walpen Chine is on the south-west coast of the Island. It’s a sandy ravine, one of many such chines on the Island created by erosion of soft Cretaceous rocks. It leads from the cliff top to approximately halfway down the cliff face above Chale Bay. It’s now dry and the river bed can be seen heading back uphill to the cliff edge. It’s believed that William Walpen took his name from the Chine because he appeared out of nowhere and nobody can trace his lineage or history prior to 1835.’

  Horton couldn’t see how this was relevant to the case, but it had to be. ‘Go on,’ he urged.

  ‘Walpen was a rough sort of man, blustery, big, tough, but extremely wealthy and generous. No one knew where his wealth came from and there were several stories surrounding it. One was that he’d been a fisherman and had made a huge fortune from smuggling, the other that he’d come from a wreck off Walpen Chine, looting from it gold and jewellery. But if he’d been a local fisherman someone would have known him and there is no wreck of that period that ties in with Walpen’s appearance. So the other theory is that Walpen broke away from a ship off Chale Bay, escaping with stolen jewels and gold, and there is a possibility that the ship was one of a fleet of packet steamers provided by Louis Philippe for Charles X on his flight from France for England in August 1830. It’s known that Charles X brought valuables with him to pay for his new life in England.’